He's Not Here
by HootsMon
Summary: John's partner starts to wonder who this 'Sherlock' actually is.   Inspired by the song "He's Not Here", from the musical Next to Normal. One-shot, might change in time.


The silence seemed to stretch on for ages.  
>Daniel chewed on the inside of his lip, his eyes fixed on John's, whose own eyes had wandered to the open window. John was frowning slightly, his lips pursed in the oh-so familiar expression that Daniel had grown to love. Finally, just when Daniel was about to stammer an apology and beat a hasty retreat, John looked back at him with a slightly sad smile and said "Sure. Yeah, drinks sound great."<p>

The rain outside was hammering against the window as John stroked the fire that was blazing in their small hearth. He was humming slightly as he worked, the light casting harsh shadows on his lined face. Daniel couldn't help but smile at him from his seat on the squashy sofa. Contrary to normal human nature, John seemed to get more attractive the older he got, and now in his fifties, he thought his partner had never looked better. Seven years they'd been together now, and Daniel still considered himself the luckiest man alive. He'd been the orderly asked to give the new doctor a tour of The Belford, and he'd been quite peeved until he'd laid eyes on Doctor John Watson. He'd been smitten as a school girl ever since, and three months later, had finally worked up the courage to ask the doctor out for drinks. A year later they'd moved into Daniel's small flat together, and a year after that, John had surprised him with a small cottage on the outskirts of Fort William.

John hoisted himself up with a groan and limped over to the sofa, plopping down next to Daniel and leaning his head heavily on his shoulder. Daniel wrapped an arm around him and kissed him temple. "Leg bothering you?" he muttered into John's hair, more gray now than the sandy color he'd fallen for.

"Mm," John huffed in reply, patting his leg with a slight chuckle. "It's ridiculous, really. Psychosomatic limp that I'm fully aware of, but can't get rid of." He chuckled again. "Sherlock would have a field day with me."

Daniel smiled and settled back into the sofa arm. Whenever John mentioned Sherlock, there was surely a long story to follow. Most of them John had told repeatedly, but Daniel didn't mind. Whenever John spoke of Sherlock, he got a glint in his eye that Daniel loved to see. He had asked, early into their relationship, why John had left London at all, when he seemed to be so happy there. John had merely shrugged and said he'd had to, needed a change of pace, to get some fresh air, a new environment. Daniel had suggested repeatedly that John invite the fellow over, but John would just laugh and shake his head and say "Sherlock leave London? I think he'd throw Anderson a birthday party before that happened." Daniel had even suggested a trip to London, but John had refused. "My leg couldn't handle it," he'd said sadly, "and besides, we're both too busy here. The letters will do."

John wrote to Sherlock religiously. Every Friday night, he'd sit in front of the fire with a cup of strong tea and write for an hour, long paragraphs in his small untidy scrawl. Daniel couldn't fathom what he had to write about, their life being comfortable but not exactly what one would call 'exciting', but John never seemed at a loss for words. Every Saturday, he'd drop off the letter at the post office while walking Gladstone, and return with a broad smile and a story to tell about whatever adventures Sherlock had been up to.

With eight years together fast approaching, however, Daniel couldn't quite get over his discomfort about the whole situation. He told himself that John was a wonderful man who just so happened to have a preoccupied best friend who couldn't be bothered to visit or even so much as call for over seven years and that was probably considered perfectly normal in some circles, but that pill was becoming increasingly hard to swallow. He would chalk that up to this 'Sherlock' just being a rude person, but he had never seen a letter. Not one. John collected the post himself, so at first he assumed that he simply read them on his way home, but either he threw them away, which seemed incredibly unlikely, or…or what? The cottage wasn't large, and they shared a room. He'd fought past the prickling of guilt while John was out with Gladstone one evening and had peered through John's wardrobe. He'd been startled, but not overly surprised to find a gun tucked away in his sock drawer, but no letters.

**Sherlock Holmes**. He stared at the text in the search engine guiltily before hitting the enter key. For some reason, this felt like betrayal. The screen was instantly flooded with links, and he clicked on the first one.

"The Science of Deduction", he muttered out loud, squinting at the monitor. He knew of Sherlock's blog, John had mentioned it many times, but he'd never thought to actually check it. He scrolled through the entries, noting a familiar story here and there, when suddenly he noticed something off. He scrolled back up to the last entry posted and…yes, the date. He refreshed the page, wondering if it was perhaps an error, but the date remained. 2012. Sixteen years ago. He frowned slightly. Why would the man not update in sixteen years? Case after case archived, then nothing. He clicked the back button and was about to go to the next link when a knock sounded on the front door. The pretty woman standing on the doorstep looked up from her Blackberry as Daniel swung open the door, gave him small smile, and handed him a thick manila folder. He took it automatically and opened his mouth to question her, but she quickly raised her hand to silence him.  
>"Any questions you may have are answered in there," she said, nodding towards the folder, before quickly turning and striding back to a sleek black car idling on the curb.<p>

Daniel watched the car glide away into the night, then glanced down at the folder, worry creasing his brow. He slowly walked back to his chair, letting the front door swing shut behind him as he settled into the cushions. He flipped the folder in his hands, examining it cautiously. It was worn, as if it had been sifted through many times, and the edges were torn, fit to burst from all the information stuffed inside. An official looking crest graced the front cover. Daniel glanced back at the door. Who had that woman been? And why had she given him some mysterious folder before disappearing? The whole situation was highly uncomfortable, and his conscious was screaming at him to just put the folder down and wait until John got home. But curiosity go the better of him, and with a deep breath, he opened the folder and pulled out the first paper, a newspaper article, that proclaimed in large, accusatory letters, "SHERLOCK HOLMES, FRAUD DETECTIVE, JUMPS TO DEATH".

What?

He read deeper. Sixteen years ago, a one 'Sherlock Holmes' had been proven a fraud. He'd hired people to outwit to make himself seem a genius, and when one of his actors, a man named Richard Brook, had come out to the papers, Sherlock had leapt to his death from the top of St Bartholomew's Hospital. Multiple articles repeated the story from different papers. Entire sections were devoted to readers arguing over whether or not Sherlock was real. A stapled packet turned out to be Richard Brook's resume and work history, his smiling face peering out from the middle of a gaggle of puppets. A large envelope contained photo after photo of street graffiti; 'I Believe in Sherlock Holmes', 'Richard Brooks Was Real', back and forth. John's own file was among the papers, as well as Daniel's own, to his horror. A receipt for the cottage he was sitting in. A background check on him, as of seven years ago. Overwhelmed, he set the open folder down on the side table and stared at a large photo of a young John alongside a regal looking man in a deerstalker; Sherlock himself. He gazed at the man's face, his prominent cheekbones, his piercing eyes, and couldn't help but notice how similar they looked, his own eyes just as piercing, his hair a softer brown but still falling in ill-tamed curls. He was roused suddenly when the door opened, and Gladstone charged into the room, his wrinkled face contorted with glee. John hurried in after him, leaning heavily on his cane as he rubbed the chill from his hands.

"Blimey, it's cold out there," he huffed, settling on to the sofa and setting his cane carefully beside him before grinning up at Daniel. His brow furrowed slightly as he took in Daniel's expression, and he glanced down at the folder open on the table, his expression melting into one of complete horror.

"John…" Daniel started, before getting up and sitting next to him on the sofa. John didn't look at him until Daniel had taken his trembling hand in his own. "John, we need to talk."


End file.
